


His Girl Friday

by orphan_account



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, F/M, M/M, Mystery, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian and Jessica investigate the disappearance of investigative reporter, Jay Merrick. Little do they know, there's much more to this case than what they're seeing. </p><p>[or an AU where Brian is a private detective and Jessica is his trusty Girl Friday/Beleaguered <s>Secretary</s> Assistant]</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Girl Friday

Jessica had taken one week off for Christmas— _one week_ —and the office had turned into a complete disaster zone. 

The first telltale sign that something had gone horribly wrong during her leave of holiday themed absence was that the lights wouldn't turn on. She spent a good minute flicking the switch, staring hard at the ceiling light and waiting for it to do something. Someone had forgot to pay the power bill. 

Fast food wrappers, empty glasses, and half-full cartons of eggnog were littered on almost every available surface (thankfully her desk was left untouched). The Christmas tree in the corner of the office was brown and withering, several ornaments broken on the floor. _Someone_ had forgot to water it. 

The last sign was when she almost tripped over a person-shaped thing on the floor. Her boss. Camped out in a sleeping bag. SOMEONE had forgot he actually owned a bed. 

Jessica knelt beside him. He was sound asleep, his snoring the equivalent of a chainsaw. She poked him in the shoulder. Nothing. Cheek. No response. She was tempted to lift his eyelid and stick her finger in there, but resisted. This was her boss after all. No, she'd have to be gentle with him. 

She grabbed the air horn she kept in her desk for emergencies, placed it near his ear, and pressed the button. 

“FUCK SHIT FUCK.” 

Brian Thomas rolled away in the sleeping bag, curling up in fetal position like a pill bug. 

“You're evil,” he said. 

“This place looks like a bomb hit it.” Jessica stood, taking another measured look around the office to survey the chaos. “What did you do? And why are you sleeping down here? You have a normal bed upstairs in your normal apartment.” 

“What was that? Can't hear you. Think you blew out my eardrums.” 

Another blare of the air-horn startled the two blue jays perched on the phone lines outside. 

“Worked late on a case. Too tired to walk upstairs.” 

“You're hopeless.” 

“And—like I said before—you're evil.” 

“Power's out by the way.” 

Brian stuck his head out from the sleeping bag. He squinted at the ceiling, observing it with the detection skills he was so fond of bragging about. Jessica took note of his tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, and five o'clock shadow. He hadn't been lying about staying up all night. The dark bags underneath his eyes were indicative of the long hours he put into his work. 

“I thought you paid it," he finally said. 

“I never got the notice.” 

“You're the one who goes through the mail.” 

“If I saw a notice I would have paid it.” 

Brian kept staring at the light, as if looking at it long enough would will it to turn on. Jessica sighed. She opened the blinds of the only window in the cramped office to let in some natural light. Bad idea. It only made the mess more foreboding. _This is what happens when you take time off_ , she thought ruefully. _You're workplace becomes an episode of_ Hoarders. 

“I don't think maid services were mentioned in the job description,” Jessica said flatly. “If you think I'm cleaning this up then I'm quitting.” 

“What is this? The hundredth time you've threatened to quit?” Brian rolled up his sleeping bag in the most haphazardly way possible. He was dressed in a ratty college sweatshirt and boxer shorts. The sweatshirt had a conspicuous pizza stain on the letter 'A'. 

“I'd say it's the fifty-second,” Jessica said. “Not that I'm counting.” 

Brian leaned the sleeping bag against the wall near the dying Christmas tree. He regarded it for a few seconds before picking up one of the fallen non-broken ornaments and hanging it on one of its wilting limbs. The branch sagged from the added weight, and the ornament fell back onto the floor, breaking with a soft, tinkling sound. 

“Anyway, how was your holiday?”

“Fine.” 

“The family?”

“Still dysfunctional.” Jessica began rapidly tapping her computer's ENTER key. “I haven't spent a Christmas with my folks since I was seventeen.” 

Brian sat down at his desk, leaning his chair back and propping his socked feet on the desktop. The left sock had a hole in the big toe. It was amazing that his disgusting fifteen year old tube socks had room to be propped since the desk was covered in a flurry of takeout receipts, his international shot glass collection, multi-colored Post-It notes, and a single bottle of _extra añejo_ tequila. 

“So you were alone on Christmas?” He didn't do a good job of disguising the pity in his voice. 

“No,” she said. “I spent it with a friend of mine.” 

That friend being Sarah Reid, an actor friend from Jessica's college days. They stayed in touch after graduation if only to commiserate over their failed careers in theater. This Christmas had actually been enjoyable. Jessica and Sarah had reminisced about a disastrous production of _As You Like_ It they both starred in over boxed wine and gingerbread. 

“Well I had a great Christmas.” Brian wobbled in his chair—an ancient wooden thing bought at a flea market. Jessica expected it to fall apart at any moment. “Finished up that adultery case--” 

“Which adultery case?” 

“You know. The one where the husband thinks she's fooling around with her boss?” The look he gave Jessica could only be described as “meaningful'. She pretended not to notice. 

“So was she?”

“Nah. Turns out she was screwing her brother-in-law. Not the boss. Funny, right?”

“More sad if anything.” 

Brian shrugged. He told her once that being a private detective meant destroying the part of yourself that empathized with others. You couldn't be biased, you couldn't care too much. 

(“That's why they call 'em 'private dicks'.” 

“Hmm.. I don't think that's true.”) 

Jessica had always been an inquisitive person. When she was younger, she devoured any Nancy Drew book she could get her hands on, and tried to solve the mystery before Nancy did. She snooped around her parents' things—once finding a pair of earrings in her father's glove box that definitely did _not_ belong to her mother. She asked too many questions. Always saw a mystery when their wasn't one. This got her into trouble more often than not. 

So it made sense she'd be interested in getting a job as a private investigator's secretary (though most days she felt more like a caretaker than a secretary...and the word secretary was sort of an outdated, subservient term that made her think of Maggie Gylllenhaal in nylon stockings). It wasn't her first choice—Jessica had graduated with a theater degree—and she never imagined she would spend her evenings in a tight, cramped, non-air conditioned office with an eccentric man-child, but it was what she had to do to get by. 

And she'd rather have an exciting - if mildly annoying - job than a boring one. 

Jessica was distracted from her thoughts by the sound of a lawnmower being turned on. Brian had fallen asleep at his desk. His head was tilted backwards, and a loud, grating snore came out of his open mouth. Another blow of the air horn had him falling out of the chair, wide awake and ready to go. 

He gave her a dirty look which she returned with a bright, innocent smile. 

"Evil."

\---

Jessica Locke was a force of nature. 

What force, Brian had not yet decided. Maybe the sort of force that burst into your office, cleaning up everything in sight. The sort of force who paid electricity bills on time, and knew the perfect place to take your dry cleaning. The sort of force that took his shit with a thin, irritated smile before dishing it right back. 

Brian did not know life before Jessica Locke. It was impossible. 

So he wasn't surprised when she cleaned up the mess he had left over the holiday week, grumbling 

( _not getting paid enough to do this shit_

_should just quit_

_bastard son of a bitch asshole_ )

under her breath the entire time. He watched as his carefully organized system was vacuumed, dust busted, polished, and thrown into an overflowing waste basket. Jessica had done the same thing when she first started as his secretary. He went out on a job, and came back to a sparkling clean office. He almost had a coronary. 

“How are you supposed to find anything when it looks like this,” she had said. 

“ _Looked_ ,” Brian countered. “It _looked_ like that, but now it looks like I work in fucking Miss Marple's house.” 

“And _how_ many cases has Miss Marple solved?” 

That was it. The dispute was ended. Put to rest. Jessica Locke had won. It wouldn't be the last time. 

Anyway. 

It happened after Jessica left for the night (“this place better be spotless when I come in tomorrow. If I see one water ring, I swear, I will burn this place to the ground.”). He was sitting at his newly cleaned desk, playing Minesweeper on his now working computer, when Jessica's phone rang. As his secretary, she was in charge of answering the phone, fielding calls, and dealing with clients. Usually Brian let the phone ring if she wasn't around. He didn't like talking to people over the phone. One of the reasons he advertised for a secretary in the first place was that particular anxiety. 

Brian stared at the phone until it stopped ringing. 

Back to Minesweeper. He had lost only thirty-five times since he started playing. A new record. 

The phone rang again. 

He clicked on the wrong rectangle and blew up. 

Brian sighed, standing up from his desk and approaching Jessica's as if it were a dangerous wild animal. By the time he picked up the phone the person had hung up. Relief. Brian placed the phone back in the cradle, and walked back to his desk. He was about to sit down when it rang again. 

He answered it this time. 

“Hello, Thomas Investigations,” Brian said. “This is the titular Brian Thomas speaking.” 

“Brian? It's Tim.” 

Brian sat in Jessica's chair. Near her computer was a framed photo of two golden retrievers wearing festive party hats. 

“Tim? Really?” 

“That's what I said.” 

“Shit.” 

Brian hadn't spoken to Tim since college. They had been roommates—friends. Tim was a reserved, quiet guy. Didn't like talking about himself. He would lean out the window and smoke cigarettes. When they went out to dinner he would always ordered a cheeseburger with ketchup on the side. Brian hadn't thought about him in a long time. 

“How'd you get this number?” Brian asked. 

“Phone book.” 

“People still use phone books?”

“I still do.” Tim paused. “Look, I called because I need your help. I heard you were the one to talk to.”

“Where did you hear that? The phone book again?”

Tim sighed. “It doesn't matter. Will you help?”

“If you tell me what's going on. Yeah, man. Of course.” He opened the top drawer of Jessica's desk. Inside were neatly organized and labeled files. Invoices arranged by date and then by last name in alphabetical order. He took the MILLER file and replaced it with the WINSLOW file. 

Tim hesitated. “That's good to hear.” Another long, nervous pause. Brian politely waited for Tim to gather his thoughts. If it had been anyone else, Brian would be rushing them along with a few barbed witticisms, and pointed huffs. “Look, I'm not really comfortable discussing everything on the phone. Just promise me you'll help.” 

“I promise.” He said it without thinking. 

“Okay. I'll be there tomorrow morning.” 

And then he hung up.


End file.
